[Jan D. Hodge]

John Whitworth posted:

> It was a winner in a long ago New Statesman
> competition . . . I don't know who wrote it.
> Probably Bill Greenwell will know. It could have
> been him.

> Higgledy-piggledy,
> Dorothy Richardson
> Wrote a long novel in
> Search of her Muse,
> Where, though I wouldn’t sound
> Uncomplimentary,
> Nothing much happens and
> Nobody screws.

Sorry to rain on the parade, but:

This won? If so, shame on The New Statesman. I'm surprised that no one else on the thread--or at The New Statesman--has pointed out that this is a (botched) plagiarism of a higgledy-piggledy by John Hollander, published in the earliest days of the form, in Jiggery Pokery (ed. Hecht and Hollander, Atheneum, 1966):

The Lower Criticism

Higgledy-piggledy
Dorothy Richardson
Wrote a huge book with her
Delicate muse

Where (though I hate to seem
Uncomplimentary)
Nothing much happens and
Nobody screws.

[John Whitworth]

Naw, it's just me misremembering. Must have read it in Hollander's book. I was quoting from memory, though I don't see it as a botch. Long novel/huge book? And have YOU ever read it? I thought not. Shows the power of poetry. Pity someone didn't write one about Ulysses in time.

[Mark Allinson]

I think maybe this one fits the rubric:


Taste

I hunger for the taste of hot, fierce art.
Something Yeatsy, with a gut-kick ending;
Or Donneish, with a batter-my-heart-fierce-start.
The cool taste rules, and no use pretending:
A common recipe involves the blending
Of wry-dry whimsy with refined despair.
Add a sweet dash of wist to the ending
And you feel like you just ate a plateful of air!
Give me a Hopkins-like tongue-searing prayer!
A sour taste of Hope, or dark seasoned Hardy
Meditating life on a cold-stone-stair!
Chili-hot meats from the Devil’s party,
Cellar-cold wines laced with cinnamon spice,
A taste like a Yeats-fierce dawn over ice.